Some Go Hungry. J. Patrick Redmond
Lots of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, I bet?
“You got it.”
“Must be nice to have your own restaurant. I’d rather own one than work in one. I’d be out of here if tips weren’t so good.” Chad scanned the lounge.
“This seems to be a happening place,” I said.
Two tables away, a lady who was sitting with her husband was trying to get Chad’s attention, waving her thumb and forefinger, pressed together as if holding a pen, signaling she wanted her check.
“Listen, I’ve got to check my other tables. I’ll put in another Corona for you.”
“Thanks.”
I sipped my beer as Chad dropped a check at the woman’s table, then cleared cocktail glasses from another. The way he moved from table to table told the tale—he was a seasoned server. On his way to the bar, he sailed past the big-screen TV and switched the channel to In Living Color. The skit, with Damon Wayans and David Alan Grier, was a repeat in which their characters—parodies of movie critics—gave two snaps up for a film they were reviewing. Chad mimicked the zigzag motion of the effeminate characters with one hand while balancing his serving tray in the other. I giggled. When Chad reached the bar and dropped off the empty cocktail glasses, he turned and looked in my direction. Again, he flashed that smile. It seemed he somehow knew I was watching him. My face warmed when I realized he was flirting with me.
Thank God I have another beer coming.
Chad returned with the fresh beer and a ramekin of salsa. Retrieving my empty Corona and placing it on his serving tray, he pulled out a chair to sit down, placing his tray on my table.
“Do you think she wanted her check?” he said sarcastically. “Glad she’s gone. She and her husband are regulars. Good tippers, but they run my ass off. They must think this is the River House or something. I hate to tell them, but this isn’t fine dining. They never order food, just fill up on chips and salsa.” He watched the couple disappear behind saloon-style doors.
“I guess I’m kind of doing the same,” I said.
“No, you’re cute. It’s okay.”
I smiled, not knowing how to accept the compliment but enjoying it just the same. I had never experienced a situation like this, open flirting from a guy. I had fantasized the scenario, but never until this moment had it happened. As a small boy—long before I knew about sex—I remember seeing a teenage grill cook in our restaurant who had a protruding Adam’s apple. I thought it made the young man look tough; I knew then that when I got older, I wanted an Adam’s apple like his. From that moment I felt different. My interests had never been like my cousins’, and at the time I felt I couldn’t ask my dad. Although he loved me and never laid a hand on me—unlike the welts and bruises he’d received from Grandpa Collin growing up—he was quick-tempered and easy to anger. On more than one occasion I found myself ducking a hammer or tool-turned-missile during home repairs or restaurant renovations. And I clearly remember the horrible death our plastic outdoor Santa suffered at his hands when it wouldn’t light up one Christmas. Always self-aware, I worked hard at trying to do or be what others expected, so the schoolyard bully wouldn’t beat me up like Dad had done to poor Santa.
But being in a supervisory position at the restaurant gave me some feeling of freedom and independence; I’d begun—subconsciously, perhaps—to seek avenues in which I could explore my feelings. Here I was in Evansville, being served by a cute guy obviously interested in me. I enjoyed the feeling and the attention.
What’s wrong with that?
“So, are you staying in town tonight?” Chad asked.
“I hadn’t planned to.”
“I’m going out with friends after work. You should join us.”
“Where are you going?”
“To a dance club. Come along. You’ll like it.”
“What time are you meeting?”
“Probably ten thirty or so. I’ll need to swing by home to shower and change. Don’t want to go out smelling like burritos.”
“No. That wouldn’t be good,” I replied. “I don’t know if I can sit here for five hours though. If I keep drinking, I’ll be blasted before you get off work.” I scrambled for an excuse to stay. I really wanted to. “I do have friends who live east of here. I suppose I could pop by their place and visit them.”
“It’s a plan,” he replied. “Be back about ten, and we’ll go from here.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Want another beer?”
“Just one, then I ought to go.”
“Okay, one more. After that you’re cut off—until later.” Chad winked.
I smiled. There was no way I was going to visit my friends. They would wonder whom I was meeting and what I was doing. I would drive the hour home, clean up, then return to Evansville before ten p.m.
When I returned to Chi Chi’s that first Friday night, after having driven the hour back to Fort Sackville, after showering and changing clothes, the anticipation was like stepping outdoors into the charged air of a spring thunderstorm riddled with lightening. It had been a long time since I’d felt excited about meeting someone and going out, and even then it was never like this. I’d dated girls in high school. Even as recently as six months ago I’d had one in my bed. It was never thrilling. I usually got drunk, and sex was about the mechanics—void of feeling and emotion, as if I were following the instructions of the mysterious narrator’s baritone voice in the black-and-white health and safety films I’d watched in high school. Tonight, however, I felt what I supposed my straight guy-friends felt when they were meeting a girl.
Having arrived on time and surprised by how busy the lounge was, I found a seat at the bar and ordered a Corona. The earlier beers had worn off hours ago. Chad was not working the lounge, the bartender said—he had a section in the dining room and was about to get cut for the night. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” he said.
Not long after, just as I finished my second beer, Chad came into the bar and sat on the stool beside me, his black apron rolled tight and bulging with the busy night’s tips.
“I just cashed out. What a night! This place is crazy. The first semiwarm day so far, and the whole town decided to celebrate.” He placed his apron on the bar and swiveled in his stool to face me. “Should we have a drink here, or do you want to have one at my house while I get ready?”
“We can have one at your place.”
“I don’t have Corona, only Bud Light. That okay with you?”
“Bud Light is fine.”
Partially unrolling his apron, Chad pulled out a roll of ones, paid my tab, and then leaped down from the stool. I followed him out of the lounge, watching his walk.
“My friends are going to meet us there. They’re not off yet,” he said as we strolled out the front door of Chi Chi’s, the sound of salsa music dancing into the clear night air.
“That’s cool. It’ll be nice to meet some new people.”
I followed Chad’s Honda closely in my convertible as we maneuvered beneath the orange sodium-vapor streetlights to his neighborhood on the northwest side of Evansville. I only knew certain parts of the city: the mall, Chi Chi’s, the downtown area on the banks of the Ohio. He was definitely taking me into foreign territory.
We entered into the living room of the tri-level ranch house, and I sat on the sofa near the large picture window. “I’ll get you that beer,” he said, disappearing from the adjoining dining room into the kitchen. Returning, he handed me the ice-cold beer. “One for you and one for me.” He popped his open. “Help yourself if you want another, they’re in the fridge. I won’t be